


though it be false in its form...

by mademoiselle_murasaki



Category: Versailles no Bara | Rose of Versailles
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Exposition, Gen, Historical, No Plot/Plotless, Rosalie is a fairy tale heroine, anyone who says otherwise can fight me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-01 15:25:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11489214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mademoiselle_murasaki/pseuds/mademoiselle_murasaki
Summary: “What a pretty name,” the old woman said absentmindedly as she helped the girl pull a nightgown over her head. “You’re one of the village girls?”The borrowed garment must have belonged to someone much taller than Rosalie, for it fell to the floor around her feet and left only the tips of her fingers peeking out of the sleeves. “Yes,” she answered, before remembering why she was here at all and correcting herself. “No. Not anymore. Now that maman is dead...”or, Rosalie, fairy tale heroine, finds her way to the old chateau that haunts her village on a stormy night, and unravels the mystery of the cursed beast within. The Rose of Versailles meets Beauty and the Beast. Fairy tale AU.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> The Rose of Versailles meets Beauty and the Beast in an AU that won't let me rest until I've explained it to someone. Unfortunately, there is no plot in sight, just two chapters of talking and exposition. Hopefully someone will get a kick out of it for the Beru-Bara Mikkakan 2017.

_One more step,_ the barefooted girl told herself as she inched her way through the ankle-deep mud. One more step until she could abandon this desolate country road and rest for the night. She took a step forward, then another. There was no place to stop; she could barely see her hand in front of her face, let alone shelter from the driving rain.

She had nowhere to go, but nowhere to return to, either. At least, not anymore.

 _One more step,_ she told herself, lowering her head against the wind...

... and walked into an elaborate wrought-iron gate.

She blinked, stunned by the delicately crafted vines and flowers barring her way, cast in unyielding metal as if they had sprung up from the ground in that form. Squinting through the rain, she looked to see what lay beyond the barrier and found a dark outline of towers and spires against the heavy clouds.

The girl gasped, a tiny noise drowned out by the storm as soon as it escaped her lips, as she recognized the dark castle of her childhood nightmares. All that was known in the village about the centuries-old chateau was that it belonged to an aristocratic family in Versailles, and that a handful of servants maintained the residence, appearing from time to time in the marketplace. But these servants rarely spoke of their master, and in the absence of facts, rumors flew amidst the provincial gossipmongers.

One washerwoman claimed the servants had brought an elegant ballgown to her for cleaning, which she took as proof that the count was keeping a mistress locked away in the countryside. The baker heard the count’s son had offended the queen so grievously he had been exiled from the court and forbidden to leave the estate; a royal courier stopping at the tavern for a meal, however, claimed it was the count’s wife, discarded for failing to produce a male heir. Nothing could convince the milliner’s wife that the chateau harbored anyone less than the queen’s secret child with a Turkish sultan, based on her conversation with the servant who bought an outlandish ostrich-feathered hat from her husband, but very few people believed her, since the milliner could barely afford to stock lace, let alone exotic feathers.

No, it was two harvests past when the chateau’s servants brought the spoils of a great hunt to the village as a gift to the people. “If these are the leftovers,” remarked the butcher in the market square while the feast was prepared, “then the master must have the appetite of a bear.”

From that day forward, as the girl clutched at her mother’s skirts in fright, listening to hunters spinning tales of things that lurked in the dark woods, most of the villagers were in agreement -- whatever lived in the old chateau, it was, without doubt, a terrible beast.

The details changed with every telling, but standing before the chateau gates, all the stories ran together into one nightmarish blur of fangs and claws, ready to tear at her from the shadows. Her mind began to play tricks on her, imagining heavy footsteps stalking her in the dark. She took a deep breath and pushed open the gates, stepping across the boundary of the chateau grounds. Better warm and dry in the hands of the monster’s servants than ripped to pieces on the road.

In the darkness, the carefully maintained hedgerows and topiary loomed over her like birds of prey, reaching out to snag her dress on their claws. Every shadow appeared blacker than the last, each noise amplified louder over the pounding rain. She walked faster, then broke into a flat-out run, desperate to reach the relative safety of the chateau. By the time she reached the building, she was too exhausted to be afraid of what awaited her within, and beat her fist against the doors with all that remained of her strength.

For long minutes, there was no answer. Then, just as she was ready to give up and collapse in the scant shelter offered by the stone steps, the door creaked open, just a few inches, and a dark-haired young man, gentle and boyish, peered out at her. Shock and pity crossed his face.

The girl tried to explain herself, but before she could force any words out from between her chattering teeth, the servant turned and shouted over his shoulder, “Oscar! Wake Grandmama! Tell her to bring dry clothes and blankets, and hurry!”

She didn’t have time to wonder who the servant was talking to before he pushed the door open wide and beckoned her in out of the storm. “Come in, come in, you’re half-frozen,” he said, guiding her through soaring halls toward the glow of firelight upstairs.

 

* * *

 

Despite the forbidding exterior of the chateau, the study to which he led her was warm, intimate, and modern in its furnishings. The girl sank into a well-used chaise softer than any straw pallet she had ever slept on and watched the servant stoking up the blaze in the fireplace, fretting at her violent shivering. This one room contained more opulence than her entire village possessed, but showed signs of frequent use. Books piled up on end tables, waiting to be returned to shelves; a handsome coat lay draped over the back of a chair, a lace-trimmed cravat strewn across the seat. There was a half-empty bottle of wine and two glasses within arm’s reach of where the girl sat, all arrayed for the comfort of whomever usually inhabited this spot in front of the fire.

The servant brought a tray with a peculiarly shaped teapot and gave its contents a vigorous stir before pouring her some. “Here,” he said, offering her a teacup with a rose painted on its side, “it’s bitter, but it’ll warm you up.”

Hesitant, the girl took a cautious sip of the lukewarm beverage, thick beneath a layer of foam and certainly not any kind of tea. It was heavy and bitter, full of spices that warmed her from the inside out. She finished the cup in one long gulp and gasped, “It’s strong!”

Grinning, the servant poured her a second helping. “You’ve never had chocolate before, have you?”

She peered into the cup, curious. “This is chocolate?”

“Chocolate the way Oscar likes it, anyway,” he said, shrugging as if to apologize. “Cold, bitter, and with half the spices in the kitchen thrown in for good measure.”

“Mmm...” the girl nodded, eyelids drooping, and she stifled a yawn between sips of chocolate. “Who’s Oscar?” she mumbled.

The servant hesitated, rubbing at a smudge on the chocolate pot’s short spout. Just when he looked up to answer her, however, a shrill voice sent him leaping to attention, hands up to defend himself from the verbal attack.

“André!” scolded the old woman in her nightgown, bustling into the room with her arms full of heavy blankets and spare bedclothes. “What are you doing? Can’t you see the poor thing’s soaked to the bone? Out with you!”

Ducking as if he expected something heavy to be thrown at his head, the servant tried valiantly to conduct introductions. “This is my grandmother, she’ll take care of you” he explained to the girl, looking back and forth between them in surprise. “Grandmama, this is--”

“I can see for myself, thank you,” the old woman snapped, looking ready to give her grandson a swift kick out the door if he didn’t start moving on his own. “Out!” she repeated, “and go make up a bed in one of the mademoiselle’s _cabinets_!”

With one last apologetic glance over his shoulder, André was gone, leaving the girl with more questions than answers.

“Poor dear,” old Nanny clucked her tongue over the girl’s sorry state, all wet and bedraggled. “Let’s get you out of those wet clothes. What is your name, child?”

Shedding what remained of her thin pink dress, the girl replied, “R-Rosalie. Rosalie Lamorlière.”

“What a pretty name,” the old woman said absentmindedly as she helped the girl pull a nightgown over her head. “You’re one of the village girls?”

The borrowed garment must have belonged to someone much taller than Rosalie, for it fell to the floor around her feet and left only the tips of her fingers peeking out of the sleeves. “Yes,” she answered, before remembering why she was here at all and correcting herself. “No. Not anymore. Now that _maman_ is dead...”

She buried her face in her hands and began to cry, overwhelmed by the events that brought her to the chateau. Rosalie felt a warm blanket wrapped around her trembling shoulders and turned, instinctively, to sob in the old woman’s embrace. Nanny only held her closer, rubbing soothing circles on her back and letting the tears fall unhindered until she could speak again.

Wiping her eyes, Rosalie apologized over and over. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make a fuss,” she said. “I don’t have any money, but I’ll repay you for your kindness, I promise.”

“As if we could just leave you out in the rain!” said Nanny. “No one will be repaying anyone else for common decency.”

“But--”

Nanny just shushed her. “Get some rest, dear,” she said. “Everything else can wait ‘til morning.”

All Rosalie could do was nod as she was led down the hall and through a handsome suite, wiping her tears as she walked and trying not to trip over the hem of the too-large nightgown. A small, quiet room with a warm bed and a banked fire awaited her, and she was too tired to do anything but mumble a grateful “thank you” as Nanny tucked her under the unfamiliar covers. The moment her head touched the fluffy pillows, she fell into a deep sleep and could not be roused for all the chocolate in the world.

 

* * *

 

She dreamed of being safe at home, her journey through the storm only a terrible nightmare. Then a frowning woman in traveling clothes turned into a monster and devoured her mother, her sister, and the village. Its fangs ran red.

 

* * *

 

Rosalie awoke with a start, sitting up in an unfamiliar bed. A spoon clattered against a plate and she whipped around to find the dark-haired servant - _André, she remembered_ \- setting out breakfast. “Hey, now,” he said, worried that she would begin to cry again as the events of the previous night caught up to her. “It’s alright. You’re safe. Grandmama thought you might be hungry when you woke up.”

The girl blinked at the luxury laid out before her, plain though it might be to the chateau’s owner. “What is this place?” she asked, needing to know where she’d brought herself. It all seemed too good to be true. “I thought a monster was supposed to live here, but everyone’s been so kind to me. Are you a prisoner, too?”

Her question seemed to take André off-guard, and he laughed nervously. “What gave you that idea?” he said. “The master’s temper needs work, sure, but she’s one hundred percent human, I assure you.”

“She?” Rosalie tilted her head, confused.

The servant just sighed. “It’s a long story,” he confessed. “Let me explain...”

But he didn’t get a chance to explain before they heard a rough knock at the door. From the other side, a deep, growling voice demanded, “André, is she awake? Let’s get this over with.”

Frightened, Rosalie squeaked and drew her knees up to her chest. André glanced at her, then moved to stop whatever was trying to enter. “Oscar, please, just wait,” he pleaded, but the intruder would not be deterred.

Over the servant’s protests, the door was flung open, and Rosalie found herself face-to-face with a beast every bit as terrible as the village hunters’ stories had foretold.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her words caused beast and servant alike to freeze, hardly daring to hope. André spoke where the monster was speechless. “Would you believe me,” he asked slowly, “if I told you Oscar was cursed?”

Eight feet tall, horned and vicious, the beast advanced on Rosalie, looming over the girl with its fangs bared. Through her terror, she dimly noted its bright blue eyes and embroidered waistcoat, making a mockery of humanity in its upright form. For a long moment it glared at her; finding only fear and revulsion in Rosalie’s gaze, it stepped aside and pointed at the open door.

“Run, if that’s what you want,” snarled the beast. “Run back to your village. What will you tell them, I wonder? Do I spit fire from my eyes? Wear the bones of my victims around my neck? Do I have a serpent’s forked tongue and hiss when I speak?”

The servant closed his eyes and turned his head, expression pained. As her initial shock faded, Rosalie tried to correlate the beast’s words with its terrible features. Wrinkling her brow, she said, “You are the most fearsome creature I have ever seen, but you do not resemble any of those things.”

Her words caused beast and servant alike to freeze, hardly daring to hope. André spoke where the monster was speechless. “Would you believe me,” he asked slowly, “if I told you Oscar was cursed?”

“Cursed?” Pity washed through Rosalie, changing her view of the beast from a dreadful predator to that of a cornered animal, ready to lash out. Slowly, she uncurled from her position cowering on the bed, but just one glance from the beast’s glaring eyes caused her to flinch back. “What kind of curse?” she asked, frowning.

The beast sat down heavily, crossing its arms, in a manner completely at odds with its growling voice. It directed the brunt of its anger, however, at André, who seemed unfazed. “Telling her doesn’t change anything,” it snapped.

“It can’t hurt, either,” he said. “Let her know the truth. She might see you differently if she wasn’t so scared.”

Unable to summon a response, the beast frowned and stared into the empty space between them. After a long silence, it said, in a quiet rumble, “It began many years ago, when my father fought in Austria. André tells it better.”

Something passed between them, an unspoken challenge Rosalie didn’t catch before the servant sighed and took a seat, himself. “As you wish,” he said. “I will tell it.”

 

* * *

 

_ONCE UPON A TIME, in a palace overflowing with light, there served a young officer, favorite of the royal household and only scion to a lineage older than the king’s own dynasty. Soon, his youth and accolades gave way to pridefulness, and he embarked one summer on a campaign against their old enemies in the dark forests to the east, confident he could do no wrong._

_Long weeks turned into long months of mud and chaos and death, and even the bright young officer’s luck ran out after one terrible battle. Wounded, alone, and lost behind enemy lines, he stumbled through the deep woods at nightfall until he came across an old well in an abandoned village. A haggard crone waited, leaning heavily upon her walking stick, and called out to him as he approached._

_“Young soldier,” she spoke in a foreign tongue, “you are far from home. I will tend your wounds and show you the way to town, if only you would draw for me a cup of water from the well.”_

_But the proud officer refused. “Get your own water,” he said in his own language, not caring if she understood. “I don’t need help from the likes of you.”_

_The crone warned him again to look past her outward appearance, but once more he rebuked her._

_In a flash of light, the woman’s wrinkled skin and matted hair melted away to reveal a beautiful enchantress hovering in her place. The officer threw himself at her feet to beg for mercy, but it was too late. “I curse you and your name,” she said, and her voice was that of every voice he had ever heard, and something more. “I cannot stop you from attaining your fame and fortune, but you will never receive the thing you desire above all else. This, for your arrogance, I will deny you until your dying day.”_

_Striking her hands together, the enchantress vanished into thin air and let the glamour fall away from the village, revealing the people going about their evening chores. Stunned, the officer made no effort to resist when they captured him, and spent the last weeks of the campaign pondering the mysterious encounter until he was freed to return to his country._

_But the very next spring, he led his king’s armies to a glorious victory, and forgot all about the enchantress’ dire curse._

_The officer became a great general, married a gentle maiden whom he loved dearly, and lived in a beautiful house near the palace, abandoning the countryside chateau in which he had been born. His wife gave him one lovely daughter after the other, each of whom he treasured more than the last. When their fifth child was born, however, another girl, he began to feel uneasy, realizing at last what the enchantress had denied to him._

_After his wife told him that the next child she expected would be her last, the general sought help from anyone he could find. No doctor was foolish enough to promise him a son, and no folk remedy seemed likely to fulfill his wishes. He fell into despair, until, one night, the old crone appeared upon his doorstep._

_He threw himself at her feet, begging her forgiveness. “Please,” he implored her, “I have wronged you. Lift this curse you have laid upon me; I would give anything.”_

_“Anything?” she repeated. “Your home, your rank and accolades? Your loving wife and beautiful daughters? Do these mean nothing to you?”_

_“They are more precious to me than the moon and the stars,” the officer said, “but without a son, everything I have accomplished will be for nothing.”_

_But the enchantress was not moved. “You remain as prideful and selfish as the day we met,” she said, full of spite. “Your child will be whatever you wish it to be, but think long about what you truly desire, for any son that bears your name will bear this curse in your place.”_

_Her words echoed long after she vanished into the dark of the night, and the officer never saw the crone or the enchantress again. In time, his youngest child was born, the son he had longed for all the years, and the officer was finally content. But it was not to last._

 

* * *

 

“You see, Grandmama insisted that Oscar was a girl from the day she was born,” André explained. “The _madame_ and her older daughters weren’t entirely certain, either. It wasn’t until Oscar was presented to the court that they realized what was wrong.”

“What happened?” Rosalie asked, transfixed by the story.

“Everyone saw Oscar as someone different. Her father’s friends saw the gallant soldier he raised, while his rivals claimed to see a spoiled child, a weakling or a brute. Word had gotten out that Oscar might be a girl, so a lot of people saw her as one. A whole crowd of ladies decided they were in love with the mystery boy, but couldn’t agree on what he looked like, or if he was even a man in the first place.” The memory brought a smile to André’s face, a hint of laughter at the follies of the distant court. “They fought about it for weeks.”

Considering the tale carefully, Rosalie finally concluded, “So, Oscar appears differently to everyone who sees her?”

“Yes,” said André, “and no. They see what they want her to be, or what they expect. That is why you saw a beast, Rosalie, because you were afraid.”

Rosalie nodded, closing her eyes and sighing in relief. There was no monster in the old chateau, only illusions cast by a terrible curse.

A moment passed in silence between them, then an unfamiliar voice called her name. “Rosalie,” it said, lower than André’s voice, but warm and self-assured, “open your eyes. What do you see now?”

Curious to see the form Oscar would take, Rosalie did as she was told, glancing toward the corner where she sat, arms crossed, and couldn’t help but gasp in surprise. Oscar was tall and handsome, with golden curls and striking, masculine features, like the romantic hero of a fairytale. All that remained of the beast were the sharp blue eyes, staring intently back at Rosalie as if still deciding whether she was friend or foe. “Well?” she demanded.

“A prince...” Rosalie murmured before she could stop herself.

Oscar stood abruptly, and Rosalie clapped her hands over her mouth in horror, afraid she’d angered the cursed woman. But she only glared at André and stormed out of the room without a word to either of them.

The servant sighed, and Rosalie stammered out an apology. “Was that the wrong thing to say?”

André shook his head. “It’s not your fault. The curse takes a lot out of her.”

“What does she actually look like?”

“No one knows.” He glanced at the open door, weighing his words. “Even Oscar isn’t sure. She won’t admit it, but it scares her, looking into a mirror and not knowing who she’ll find looking back.”

“But how did she end up here?” Rosalie wanted to know.

“The court... asked a lot of Oscar,” André explained after a pause. “There were a lot of expectations placed on her... and no shortage of mirrors. To make a long story short, after one of her friends left to fight in America several years ago, Oscar broke her hand on a duke’s face. And... part of the Hall of Mirrors. And the king’s favorite... well, anyway, her mother suggested that she come out here for a month or two to recuperate, just until things blew over at court, and we haven’t been back since.” He stood and leaned against the door frame, staring into the morning sun peeking through the window in the next room. “If the rumors in the village have gotten this bad, though... Really? They think a monster lives here?”

Rosalie hadn’t yet decided what was going to come out of her mouth, an apology or a reassurance or a joke at the expense of the village gossipmongers, when she was interrupted by a long, embarrassing growl from her empty stomach, protesting her continued failure to appreciate the rich meal laid out before her.

The spell was broken; grinning cheerfully, André straightened up the furniture. “Look at me, going on about ancient history while you’re still hungry,” he said, as flippantly as if they had only been discussing the weather. “I’ll tell Grandmama to bring you something to wear, and we’ll have a proper bedroom warm for you tonight, don’t worry. Just call us if you need anything.”

“Wait,” Rosalie called out as he made to leave, curiosity getting the better of her. “May I ask you something?”

“Of course, anything you like.”

“What do you see when you look at Oscar?”

André paused in the doorway, and when he turned around to answer his face lit up with such a warm, gentle smile that she doubted even he knew the strength of the secret behind it. “I couldn’t say,” he told Rosalie at last. “She’s always just been Oscar to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid this is all I have. It was always more of an idea than a proper story, but it insisted on being written anyway.  
> Happy Bastille Day, Vive la France, and let's all have a good cry together for the Mikkakan, yes?


End file.
